


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone- But Better! (I Hope)

by awkward_and_delirious



Series: Harry Potter but Better in some ways [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ADD Neville Longbottom, Abused Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Angst, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Black Hermione Granger, Canonical Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Fluff, Dudley is bad...for now, Dursley Family Bashing (Harry Potter), Dyslexic Ron Weasley, F/M, Fix-It, Halfblood Harry Potter, Harry and Ron adopt each other, Harry and Ron are such good friends I'm crying, Harry likes to draw, I will strangle J.K Rowling, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Motherly Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom is a good boy, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pureblood Weasleys, Rewrite, Ron Weasley is a dork, Severus Snape Bashing, The Golden Trio, The Golden Trio being pure, Vernon Dursley Being an Asshole, but they're not assholes, everyone is gay except kind of not, good times for good ol boys, its kind of not his fault, muggle solutions to magic problems, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2020-09-24 07:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_and_delirious/pseuds/awkward_and_delirious
Summary: I'm rewriting the entire Harry Potter series because fuck J.K. Rowling. Also every chapter is going to be really long because I'm actually rewriting every single chapter, one by one. So expect decent breaks between each post I guess? aaaaaaWill include: decently accurate trauma in characters because hey things happen, you know? actual development, and more characters coming to the forefront.





	1. Chapter 1: In Which the Dursleys Are Very Normal

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: this is an entire rewrite/fix-it fic. This first chapter may be very similar to the first chapter of the original only because there's really not that much wrong with it. I am nowhere near to owning the Harry Potter series, as much as I would like to just so I could snatch it away from J.K Rowling so everything on her twitter would be redacted at last.

Mr. and Mrs. Durley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, which was a strange and even shifty image to want, but a want none the less and none the less truer. They were certainly the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which was a strange name for a business that sold drills, and only drills. But firms had very strange names, such as the place three blocks down from him, which sold brown shoelaces, called PigTops. He was a big, beefy man (truthfully there was more lard than beef on his body) with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and bony and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much time craning over garden fences, to spy on her neighbours. Because although her life was normal, what about the neighbours’? The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere, which was exactly what any normal family would say about their child.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret –which was certainly not something they wanted, nor did if fit with their utter ordinariness –and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Dursley would probably faint, perhaps fall into a shock and shame induced coma. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because she held on to her childish grudges and believed her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be, in so many ways. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him, much to their luck. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that, who knew what it would do to his young psyche.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday this story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange, mysterious, and otherwise absurd things would soon begin to happen all over the country. In fact, their morning began just as normally as anyone could dream. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work (melted brown, it added to the gloom that hung over his inferiors), and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. Perhaps little Dudley did, and his screeching and writhing ceased for just a moment as his large, glassy baby eyes stared at the window. But it would be impossible to tell because no one notices a baby’s observation, especially because he went right back to a tone that matched perfectly with his mother’s screechy laughter about the neighbours. Though, you would think that somehow a normal family would notice something like an owl flying past a suburban house’s window, especially at _7:30 in the morning._

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing about his arms and plastic toys while sat in his mother’s arms. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house, as any father would say about a child he didn’t have to deal with for the time. He got into his decently new Ford Fairmont Wagon (his family had to have strictly the best), and pulled out of the darling number four of Privet Drive.

It was on the corner of the street that the first sign of peculiarity appeared –a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley smiled and mumbled to himself, not realizing what he had seen –then jerked his head around to look again, which was such a feat for a man with no neck , but really the human body is quite a wonder and can pull off many stunts. There was indeed a cat, a tabby to be exact, standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat, the car engine being the only noise between them. It stared back; unblinking. As Mr. Dursley huffed and pulled away to drive around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. A normal action for a very unsuspicious man. It was now looking up and reading the sign that said Privet Drive –no, looking at the sign, or a butterfly fluttering above it. Cats couldn’t read, especially a map or sign. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As his morning journey continued he thought of nothing except a large order of drills that he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning standstill, he couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people walking about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who wore such getups! He hoped it was some new stupid fashion trend, and he prayed it would only last the week before fading back. Then again, there were a lot of foreigners coming in and out of the country. And while they cried and demanded for visitors of their country to respect their culture, they did nothing of the sorts while here! Mr. Dursley thought that if he were forced to wear a towel upon his head, then these lazy freaks ought to do the same when in his country and dress like modern London business men. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, ignorant thoughts still brewing about his head, and his eyes set upon a cluster of those weirdos huddled at a familiar distance from his car. Rage boiled throughout his body and steamed up his face to be a brilliant red when seeing that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, there was man that had to be twice his own age donned in a bright emerald-green cloak! Steam must’ve been coming out of his ears at that point, and his fingers went from tapping the steering wheel to gripping it with the force of a noose around someone’s neck. But then it donned on Mr. Dursley that this was probably some stunt, such as flashmob or something of the sorts. People would do anything for attention. But being that they were foreigners, they were obviously collecting for something; these outsiders were always clambering to get in and then begging for money. The traffic moved on and so did he, and a few minutes later Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills –he was even humming a little song about the tools.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. Which would be a bad idea, if he was in America; but there were rarely any men with a gun here, and no one would go about assassinating someone who sold drills. But with his back and otherwise attention turned away from the window, he didn’t see the owls swooping past, still in utter daylight, though people walking about the street did; they pointed and gazed, utterly stunned over the sight of owl after owl filled the sky. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. It was quite lovely, for a normal morning. He yelled at five different people, three of which were interns who had no clue as to what they were doing. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. It was necessary that the order of drills was dealt with properly, and of course to sort that out, yelling had to be involved. It had to be one of his favorite activities, as it brought him great joy and a sense of power that he found nothing else could truly bring. All that shouting must have cleared out some of whatever had heated up his blood and broiled out all his charming prejudice, as he was in a very good mood –until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a coffee and a bun or two from the bakery. He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s, still all huddled together like some sort of cult. He eyed them angrily as he passed, large hand curled into a fist. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. They were dressed so strangely yet acting so casually. They acted as if they didn’t even know what a scene they were causing, dressed like that! All jewels and bright, popping colors that only a child would want to wear. And each group of them seemed to share all the same secrets, but no one else had seemed to notice them or have heard any ounce of their conversations. It spread a cold feeling down his back, and an icy feeling around his shoulders. He didn’t like them one bit. This bunch was whispering excitedly, too, and as he pried past their gesturing hands with his eyes (he wouldn’t to actually go up the group and _touch_ them, goodness no. He would soil his hands on no such thing) he could see no collecting can. Not a single one in sight! They could just be done for the day, though Mr. Dursley doubted that any foreigner would ever be done asking for money. Once he retrieved his lunch –all the while keeping a close eye on the group –he actually caught a few words of what they were so bubbly about.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard yes, their son, Harry”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Right at the curb of the street, and his hand tightened around the doughnut in his bag. Thankfully the filled doughnuts were sold out at the moment (everything was baked fresh, that’s why Mr. Dursley like it so much; added a more genuine flavor to it all), so there was no possible way for his clutching to bring devastation to the other things scattered about in his bag. Fear flooded throughout him –the ice around his shoulders plummeted and electric shocks coursed up and down his legs. He looked back at the whisperers, an uncomfortable sweat seemingly pouring down his neck, as if he wanted to say something to them, but he thought better of it. To interact was to get more than wanted from a group like them.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, which unfortunately was not a new experience for the poor woman, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking… no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister, or any part of that family. He didn’t blame her –if he’d had a sister like that, and especially a brother-in-law like _that_… but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, no matter how many times he sang that silly song about the tool, which he was certain would be Dudley’s first full sentence at this point, because he was singing it out of near complete stress –and he had a lot of stress. When he left the building at five ‘clock, he was still so worried that the song had shot up in tempo, and he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. Despite being knocked down by such a strong, bustling power, the little man didn’t seem at all upset at the accident. On the contrary, and to Mr. Dursley’s surprise, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerbys stare and Mr. Dursley’s eyes bulge, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles such as yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!”

And the old man hopped onto his tiptoes and hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. His mustache was scrunched up and his one eye was twitching, and his face was slowly rising in temperature. He had been hugged by a complete stranger, who also sounded like the kind of man to speak in rhyme. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, which he could only figure was some kind of slur, and that really made him shake. He was rattled. Absolutely furious too. But the anger channeled itself to a form of fear he was yet to understand and he hurried to his car, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw –and it didn’t improve any spectrum of his mood –was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. Staring at that cat, he felt somewhat violated. The cat stared right back at him, with its lids narrowed in a similar anger, with more of a challenge of sorts in its expression, as if it were saying “yes, I’m still here and for a reason. I know what you don’t.”

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look, which shook Mr. Dursley quite a bit. Was this normal cat behaviour? Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife. He couldn’t imagine what kind of horrified squawks or emergency room visit would come of it.

Mrs. Dursley had had a pleasant, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Won’t!” which was a wonderful addition to his ever-growing vocabulary that included “No!” “Nu-uh!” and “Yuck!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, which surprisingly went without crying, as he passed out in the middle of jeopardy, Mr. Dursley went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

“And finally, the bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, due to their nocturnal nature, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise! Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern. They have stated that they will be observing more closely to understand what exactly caused this, and why at such a large measure.” The newscaster flashed a bit too wide of a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to you, Jim McGuffin, with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of, apparently, shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early –it’s not until next week, folks! I know it’s exciting but if there’s a downpour of sparks, it’s going to be dangerous for the neighbours around you. So stay safe. Besides all that, I can promise a rain for tonight, which ought to put an end to those ‘shooting stars’ of yours.”

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his large armchair. Shooting stars falling all over Britain? Owls flying by in daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks wandering about all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters, spread only within those mysterious people…

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea and a warm smile on her face. A glance at her face made a tinge of nervousness trill throughout his body. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat apprehensively, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair. “Er –Petunia, dear –you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry, downright offended. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister. And to have her husband bring it up –with even concern in his voice? Her nostrils flared, and she shifted so that she was sitting up even straighter and more pointedly than before, the entire length of her neck on full display.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?” Her hands were clasped over her knee, but they were fidgeting just a bit.

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. His eyes shifted nervously from his wife to the floor a couple of times. “Owls… shooting stars… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley. There was a bright pink to her cheeks now.

“Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared to tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. You see, as much power as he had, the utter silence from Mrs. Dursley topped every ounce of dominance that Mr. Dursley had in his lifetime. Her rage was always well conducted and put together; her poise spoke every word for her. So instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son –he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he? About… what is it, fifteen months?” Mrs. Dursley shifted again, sniffled once.

“I suppose so,” She said stiffly.

“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?” Mr. Dursley was watching his wife with careful and fearful eyes.

“Harry. Nasty, common name, with no meaning, if you ask me.” Her voice was getting more and more clipped.

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his voice trembling and heart sinking at quite a horribly slow, sad rate. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject, not even when they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, a strange edge came over Mr. Dursley. After a minute of lying in bed, he crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. It gave him a glance, and its eyes seemed to narrow before its head snapped back to watch the end of Privet Drive.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did… if those cloaked freaks somehow found out or already knew… and if the neighbours found out that they were related to a pair of… -well, he didn’t think he could bear it; especially Petunia. She would probably drop dead upon a slight mention of such a thing from Mrs. Next Door.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly, her long, bony frame faced far away from Mr. Dursley, who lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before sleep finally came to him, was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind and their “beliefs”… He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. There was nothing alike between either of them. He yawned and turned over, mumbling to himself that it couldn’t affect them.

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into a bit of a rocky slumber, uneasy and conspiracy-like thoughts bouncing about his tired mind, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. Despite it sitting as still as a statue, every nerve behind its fixed, unblinking eyes were jumping around with a high-strung, yet controlled, attention. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. The owls perched on two separate houses, watching intently from the roofs with wide, pointed eyes. Midnight ticked closer and closer, and yet the cat still did not move.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just been a pop of color you’d see after staring at the streetlight at the end of the road. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed, but with far less aggression than directed at the man that slept in the house it was sat outside of.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive, or any area of suburban England. He was tall, thin –but not Mrs. Dursley thin –and very old from the looks of his silver hair beard, both of which were very long and enough to wrap around his waist twice. But perhaps that’s due to the account of his thinness, and decent lack of a waist. He was wearing a vibrant purple cloak that swept along the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots with little blue stars by the ankle, that clacked along the ground and echoed through the empty neighbourhood. His eyes were a blue that perfectly matched with a long lost wanderer’s eyes –hazy and muddled, in some ways, in the brain –but they were still bright and sparkled with quivering ideas behind half-moon spectacles, which were placed on a long and crooked nose. It looked as though it had been broken at least twice, for reasons that have yet to be explored, but if you asked the right people, they would helpfully point to a certain cat. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore. A peculiar name to walk about with in a normal little neighbourhood.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. But not as unwelcome as the Potters. Or coffee flavored lollipops. He was preoccupied with rummaging in his cloak –there was a mass of large, sparkling pockets on the inside, and with each little movement of his fingers many of them made jingling sounds –looking for a very specific and unfortunately small thing. But as he patted along his coat sides it seemed to don on him that he was being watched, because he looked up rather suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from at least 40 feet down the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him, for a warm smile melted across his wrinkled face –they weren’t ugly wrinkles, ones that made him look ugly, but rather like a pound of dough that had been prodded a bit to look like a little old man. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

At that moment he found what he was looking for in the sixth pocket down on the left side of his cloak. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop –the kind of noise that was made when someone popped their thumb from their mouth. He clicked it again –the next lamp flickered into darkness. It would’ve been a bit ominous had it not been such a funnily dressed man in such a calm state. Twelve times he clicked the Deluminator, and Dumbledore was quite lucky he was not a student taking a test in a full classroom, as his teacher and fellow peers would’ve glared at him until he noticed and felt enough shame in his consistent clicking to put it down and stop for the rest of the day. The only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat, still watching him. If anyone looked out their window now, even the beady-eyes of a judgemental Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see even a flinch of movement that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Deluminator back into his sixth pocket (on the left side; he had a system, you know, he just forgot it sometimes) and strut down, calmly, the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, instead his spectacles reflected the stars, which held a sort of melancholy to them despite the warmness around the two. After a moment, he spoke –a soft, but exuberant kind of rumble.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling up at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing thin glasses perched upon her nose, which were exactly the shape of the subtle markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, though it was more refined, and emerald green. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun, and in the dim light one could barely see the thin wisps of shimmering silver hidden within it. She looked distinctly ruffled, her eyes shifting a bit, but hands clutched tightly in front of her and lips drawn taught.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, just a hint of playfulness to her voice, despite her expression.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat so stiffly.”

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor McGonagall. A tentative smile was now tugging at her face, and her eyes softened a bit.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.” There was that certain smell sifting around Dumbledore, of smoke and beers; but not a bit of that taste or smell was upon his tongue. He was a sober man, for now.

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. Her fingers were clasped more tightly, and her eyebrows drew together.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, a bit more skeptical due to all these past years… but no –even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. As wondrous as an occasion today is, you’d think they’d monitor how many owls were going out and at what rate. And shooting stars down in Kent –I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. You’d think he’d notice such a fool’s move, though he never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had almost nothing to even indulge a bit of joy in these past eleven years.”

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. She wasn’t snappy, like Mrs. Dursley, but she knew too much about it all, and didn’t want to dwell on it. There was enough at hand for the night. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors. It’s messy. We shouldn’t risk exposure even in this time.”

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to come to the realization of something quite obvious, but he didn’t –he was gazing up at the sky, still –so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about all of us.” She paused and glanced at her companion, with the hope that her repetition of the subject would finally cause the issue to register in the old man’s brain. After a pause, of which no success was dealt out, she continued, “I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of muggle sweet that I’ve found myself to be rather fond of. I came upon them while walking about the town today; a sweets shop just a ways down from this neighbourhood. You would like it, Professor, they have gummy fish too. Quite a place of hope and joy for the dark times. I hope the children are able to finally play and laugh as much as they wanted to over these past few years.” McGonagall drew back, her brow pulled down and her face twisted into an offended expression.

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops and monologues about Muggle candy shops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone –“

“My dear Professor,” Dumbledore interrupted, sounding quite exasperated despite the amused smile on his face, “surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense –for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was quite consumed with unsticking two lemon drops and waving his arms about, seemed not to notice nor care. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ The whole point of gossip is thrown out the window, and I really I don’t care for that. You never know if she means this ‘you-know-who,’ or the other one from last week, and just as you’re piecing together the whole story and about to rat some more about her, you figure out all this time she meant Voldemort. It’s quite too complicated now. As much as a terrifying wizard he was, he became quite the nuisance. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of any name, and Voldemort is no exception.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. The feint, warm smile was back on her face, but could only be seen within her greying emerald eyes. “But you’re different.” She argued. “Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”

“Only because you’re too-“ Professor McGonagall paused for a moment, in an attempt to pull together something… better to say. “well –noble to use them.” Dumbledore grinned and brought his fingers, which were decorated finely in heavily bejeweled rings, up to his face.

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

A short silence spread over the two until Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a sharp look and said, “The owls are nothing next to the rumours that are flying around,” Dumbledore gave a huff of a laugh, something that sounded like a short, bemused, exhale of air. Her eyes flashed to the side where he was, and he was altogether quickly silenced. “You know what everyone’s saying?” She continued, a hint of rising apprehension in her voice. “About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point that she was most anxious to discuss, as her hands where trembling, ever so slightly. It was the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day (though at noon, it did start to burn her paws and she chose to recede into the shade of a growing apple tree behind the wall), for neither as a cat or as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. She needed a true answer, definitive and exact, no gossip. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Though the man did love his fair share of chinwag, he was a reliable source. A strange one, and one that was hard to get to listen to you, but a reliable source nonetheless. Dumbledore, however, at this moment was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are –are –that they’re –dead.”

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Lily and James… I can’t believe it… I didn’t want to believe it… Oh, Albus…”

Dumbledore reached out slowly and patted her on the shoulder. “I know… I know…” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall would have receded from the touch, but her mind was reeling at the narrowing possibilities of the truth. Her voice waivered as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potter’s son, Harry. But –he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke –and that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly, his eyes downcast, though the reflection of them in his spectacles showed barely an ounce of recognition on the subject.

“It’s –it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done… all the people he’s killed… he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive? What’s to happen to him?’

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore with a shrug. “We may never know.”

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. The darkness of the street seemed to pull in closer and wrap around her shoulders. Dumbledore gave a great offhand sniff as he took out a golden watch from his pocket (fourth on the right) and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands, but no numbers, no markings whatsoever; instead, little planets were moving around the edge, and stars and space dust spilled over the sides like fog. No one else in the history of clockwork would seem to be able to understand it, though it must have been the best case of logic to Dumbledore, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.” He said quite proudly, a smile stretched on his face.

“You don’t mean –you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore –you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people less suitable for such a thing. They’re ignorant and hypocritical, far more than any other form of Muggle could imagine being! The husband is a brute, one who only believes those idiotic figureheads that run their whole system, and spends his time yelling at whoever. And the wife is shrewd; delves into such nonsense that isn’t even part of her life. And they’ve got this son –I saw him nearly kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for presents and sweets. Tell me how this is suited for a boy to live in? Harry Potter come and live here! No child could live in such an environment!”

“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall, nearly exploding. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you could explain all this to _them_? They freaked out over _owls_, and the woman was disgusted and offended at even a small question that brought the Potters up! This place won’t be safe for him. And even if they did take him in, they probably wouldn’t allow for any expression of magic. You do know how dangerous that is, don’t you Dumbledore?” She stared at him, horror and growing anger in her eyes. “These people will never understand him, nor will they want to.”

“But it’s safer for him to be raised with them, as he’ll be famous,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “A legend in and of its self, it’d be very surprising if they didn’t name this all ‘Harry Potter day’ in the future.” He explained, though it was clear he was just rambling utter nonsense. “There will be books written about him, of course. Every man, woman, child, even centaur will know his name. It would be enough to turn any boy’s head –famous before he can walk and talk! Can’t you see how much better of he’ll be, growing up away from all the magazines, and people clamoring outside his house?”

“There are other ways to go about this, Dumbledore.” Professor McGonagall said through gritted teeth. “If the people want to know what happened to the boy, all you have to say is that he’s been taken somewhere safe. Raise him the countryside if need be! But it’s safer for him to be with people like us –and more importantly, people who will care. I will take the boy myself if you truly don’t see a better option.” The two stared at each other, a seething tension almost smoking around Professor McGonagall’s body. Dumbledore, on the contrary, stared up at her with calm, distant eyes, the blue of them hazier than earlier. She eyed his cloak suddenly, as though she thought he might be hiding the baby underneath it, somewhere hidden within one of his pockets.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.” He mumbled, as if knowing her thoughts. She exhaled, a bit relieved, though concern still laced her eyes.

“You think it –wise –to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?” She didn’t mean anything mean by it, and her tone certainly proved that, but the man was a fickle thing with secrets and packages, and a boy was something that most definitely couldn’t be taken lightly.

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend that he’s not –well –what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky –and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, but not a terrifying or concerning kind of big. His hair was wild, made up entirely of long tangles of bushy black hair (but none of it was knotted, it was rather cared for), and a beard that hid most of his face. Still, he looked in no way opposing. He had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet looked like baby dolphins, wrapped up in thick leather boots. Hidden in his vast, muscular he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. We were just talking about you by the way. Nothing of the gossip type, though. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing very carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“Sirius Black or Harry Potter?

“Oh, Harry Potter, of course.”

“Sirius Black!” cried Professor McGonagall, and kicked at Dumbledore’s ankles. “The boy could have just as easily and safely gone to Sirius. There is no issue in doing that.”

“No problems, were there?” Asked Dumbledore, completely ignoring Professor McGonagall, and he pulled out another lemon drop.

“No, sir –house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. I grabbed a couple of extra blankets for ‘em, thought he would get cuddle. Even got ‘em a homemade one, has his initials and everything. I thought it would be a nice gift for him when he’s older. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol. Snuggled right into my chest and held on to my beard.”

Dumbledore and Professor bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair on his head, there was a curiously shaped cut, like lightning, etched across his forehead.

“Is that where -?” Whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself that’s above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. It’s really quite helpful, and good for when there’s no map to point out to people asking for directions. And it’ll give him something to talk about.”

“Something to talk about?” Professor McGonagall asked, utterly baffled. “He won’t know a thing about his parents or what caused it. He’ll just have a strange scar on his that’ll earn him all sorts of jeers by these people. Once again, I repeat, this isn’t fair.”

“I assure you, Professor, all will be well. Give him here, Hagrid –we’d better get this over with.” Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.

“Get this over with?” Gawked Professor McGonagall. “This is no light issue; there is nothing to ‘to get over with,’ we have to deal with this carefully. Dumbledore, this is a _child_. Yes, there are ‘certain ways to go about it,’ but I assure _you_, there are other resolutions.”

Dumbledore paused for just a moment, before he turned around and said, “All will be well, Professor.”

“Could I –could I say goodbye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over harry and gave him what must have been a very whiskery kiss. The infant squirmed a bit in his bundle, and, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!” Secretly, she did admit to wishing that Hagrid’s understandable crying would wake the family, or even the neighbourhood up, because then they would have to flee before being seen, and they wouldn’t be able to place Harry with the Dursleys.

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it –Lily an’ James dead –an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –“

“Yes, it’s all very sad,” said Dumbledore calmly, “but you must get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found.” Professor McGonagall patted Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s thick blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook while large tears rolled down his cheeks before soaking into his beard, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

Any murmur of words, Professor McGonagall told herself, she could whisper just any two words and prevent this from being the outcome. Any assortment of words she could mutter under her breath and the Dursley’s would wake up and come barging to the door, and shout at the three of them and show their absolute worst so that Harry would have to be removed from that doorstep.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, and clapped his hands together, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.” He smiled at the others, and Professor McGonagall almost spewed out a hundred curses when she saw that twinkle again.

“Yeah,’ said Hagrid in a very low, muffled voice, “I’ll be takin’ Sirius his bike back. G’night, Professor McGonagall –Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the shining motorcycle and kicked the engine into life.

“Hagrid’s a better option than these people,” Muttered McGonagall to Dumbledore. “He’s got more care and nurture in him than any of the two combined and multiplied by ten.”

“Weren’t you just saying how he’s a bit… messy with the care of things?” Dumbledore said, a smile on his face as he watched the motorcycle roar and rise into the air and off into the night, Hagrid still crying to himself. “I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. She thought it best not to say anything as of that moment.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street, his boots still echoing dully through the empty neighbourhood. On the corner, he stopped and took out the silver Deluminator –this time without several minutes of rummaging. He clicked it just once, and twelve balls of light sped and swirled back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed a sudden orange. He could just make out the tail of a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street, and the mass of fluffy blankets on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a far-too-dramatic swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze carried through the quiet and calm streets of Privet Drive, which glowed a soft orange under an inky sky. It was the very last place you would expect any sort of astonishing and unnatural things to happen, what with its trimmed hedges and colourful spots of garden flowers and wind chimes. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. A tiny hand grasped at the letter wedged beside him, not knowing it wasn’t the bushy curtain of a beard, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous in just one day and for the rest of time, and not knowing that in just a few hours he would be jolted awake by Mrs. Dursley’s scream when she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles. He would only spend the next few weeks being prodded, pinched and kicked by his much bigger cousin Dudley… He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people were meeting in secret all over the country, whispering, shouting, throwing up their glasses and kegs, saying “To Harry Potter –the boy who lived!”


	2. Chapter 2: A Couple Years Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for for mentions of child abuse during this chapter. I know we all know that Harry is abused but I don't want to upset anyone in any way. Let me know if there are any adjustments you want me to make if it ever gets too bad/graphic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I really struggled with figuring out what to do after the first chapter, and I felt like I had to follow exactly along the lines of the original series- but that's the whole point of rewriting it???? also fuck joanne rowling and daniel radcliffe says trans rights  
this is my series now thank you  
despite that most of this chapter is still very similar to the original, but that will be changing next chapter because really. fuck j.k. rowling.

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. Who knew a neighbourhood could truly represent the people who lived within it?

The branches of slim, white morning sun stretched across the same tidy, very identical lawns (save for the individual’s lawn gnomes or bird baths or whatever one preferred), and reached up to the brass number four on the Dursleys’ front door, which created a bright blinding light to whoever walked by and just slightly glanced over in that direction. What lay beyond the little of door of Number Four was nearly the exact same layout of the house (that had been so carefully set) on the night that Mr. Dursley had watched that news report about the owls, bug-eyes and all. Only the photographs –which were all scattered about in shrines throughout the house –seemed to have truly changed. Ten years ago, there had been pictures of a round-faced and drool smacked little Dudley adorned in different coloured bonnets and over-sized shirts- but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and the photographs only displayed a tall, large boy riding his first bicycle (no training wheels!), getting facepaint at the London Fair, playing computer games with his confused father, and being hugged and kissed and cherished dearly by his parents.

The baby pictures still existed of course; they just had their own separate shrine. The sunroom was quite filled, all with delicately placed photographs of their own little sunshine.

There was absolutely no evidence that any existence of a second child lived in that exact same house.

Despite all that, Harry Potter was there, sleeping soundly with his mind wrapped in wisp-ridden dreams. It wouldn’t last long though- a common occurrence within these walls. His Aunt Petunia had begun her day and the shrill reaches of her voice shook Harry awake.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

Harry jolted up, his breath rapid but quiet. He knew he mustn’t get too loud on any occasion, but sometimes it was a little hard. His aunt rapped on the door again, her bony knuckles hitting the wood of the door harshly. It was almost a banging sound, but Aunt Petunia wasn’t one for a lot of noise (besides Dudley’s screaming) so she kept it to a rap.

“Up!” She hissed. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen- it had to be the kitchen because it took twenty five paces for her to get there –and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove came.

She seemed focused and busy. Harry waited for a moment, listening. Nothing too frantic, however, so he assumed he needn’t truly worry or rush.

It was a dangerous decision, but after a second of quiet he rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark of his little room, and tried to remember what had captivated his sleep so wonderfully. It had to have been a good dream, because it had the thick warmth of a summer night, with a cool breeze and fireflies dancing above the blades of grass. His nose scrunched up a bit… there was something else there too… he hoped it was a good thing, because pleasant dreams were always the most fleeting for him.

His aunt was back outside the door, her shadowing snuffing out the sliver of light that withered its way under the crack beneath the door.

“Are you up yet?” she demanded, voice harsh. She wasn’t in the mood for waiting this morning.

“Nearly, Miss,” he started, scrambling up and to attention.

“Well, get up and out of there. You should’ve been dressed by now. Look after the bacon – don’t you dare burn it. You know how Vernon likes it done. I want everything to be perfect for Duddy’s birthday.”

Harry fell back onto his sleeping bag and groaned to himself.

“What was that?” her voice cut through his ears, and a feeling of electricity swam through Harry’s veins.

“Nothing, Miss, nothing. I’m very sorry.”

Dudley’s birthday –how could he have forgotten? Harry untangled his legs out of the nest of blankets and started to scrounge around on the floor for socks. He found a pair in the corner, and after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. He mumbled goodbye to the spider as it scurried off –he was far too used to spiders compared to others, but that was only because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, along with dust, and that was where he slept. Really, he was quite lucky to have a place to sleep in. Uncle Vernon had told him that he could be sleeping in the backyard. He could’ve been sleeping in the driveway, but apparently that would make the neighbours talk, and no one in number four of Privet Drive liked nor wanted that.

When he was dressed he quickly made his way down the hall into the kitchen. It took him eighteen paces to do so, not just because he was closer to the kitchen, but because he had small feet and he knew he always had to be a bit quick lest he wanted more screaming.

The table was almost hidden, absolutely drowned beneath Dudley’s birthday presents. It appeared as though Dudley had gotten the brand new computer he wanted, the one that was almost specifically for games –not work like Uncle Vernon’s computer. There also looked like there was some sort of bike, and sports balls.

Exactly why Dudley wanted a bike was a mystery to Harry, as the last time he had seen Dudley on a bicycle he was screaming about not wanting to take the training wheels off the back wheel (The photograph of him riding around without the wheels was a lucky shot, and certainly didn’t last long). On his older bike, he had tried chasing down Harry and running him over. On the other hand, Dudley seemed to love boxing. He watched it every Wednesday night with his father, and his favourite practice sack was Harry.

Harry was fast though, very fast, so most of the time he couldn’t get caught. But at some point in time he would be caught by his Aunt or Uncle, because Dudley would cry and complain and scream to them about Harry being unfair or hitting him (which never happened, he wasn’t a violent child) and they would storm over to his cupboard or wherever he was doing chores and rip him away for a variety of scorning.

Living in a dark cupboard had to do something to the way someone grew, Harry figured, because while Dudley seemed to grow a couple of inches in height and width, and the only colour he got was a light pink in his cheeks- Harry got the complete opposite.

He was small for a ten-year-old, and dreadfully skinny. Wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs didn’t help with that, because Dudley was at least four times the size of Harry, so the boy was sent to go swimming about in clothes that were not bought to make him look nice all the time. Harry’s face was thin, and he had knobbly knees attached to legs that made him look like a newborn deer. He had thick, black hair that grew in every direction and tangled within itself, and curled in every which way. Aunt Petunia said it was a waste of time to deal with. Uncle Vernon suggested shaving it all off, which made Harry hide in the broom closet for an hour because he quite liked his hair, no matter how matted it got.

He had wide, green eyes (though there were more hints of a dark, pooling brown) which Aunt Petunia said made him look like a peculiar little freak, because “green eyes shouldn’t be on a boy like you.” He wore round glasses that were held together with a lot of Scotch tape, thanks to the countless times Dudley had thrown him to the floor and punched him on the nose.

The only thing Harry _truly_, undoubtedly loved about his own appearance was a bright white, thin and stretching scar on his forehead that was looked like a bolt of lightning; the kind of lightning he once saw in a nature documentary about the rain forest that came on after Uncle Vernon’s news broadcast. He had it for as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember was asking his Aunt Petunia how he had gotten it.

_“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said, quick and cold, her eyes focused on the lunch she had been making. “And don’t ask questions.”_

Don’t ask questions –that was the first of many rules to create and maintain the quiet life with the Dursleys. He learned that quickly. Plus, he was told that questions were annoying, and “wouldn’t help him any way he wanted.”

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

“Comb your hair!” he grunted, which startled Harry a little bit and almost made him drop the current slice of bacon he was working on.

About once every few weeks now, Uncle Vernon squinted over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed haircut. He was told that he was lucky that he had given up on simply shaving it all off, but that meant that Harry had had more haircuts than any of the kids in his class put together. Maybe even in the whole school! But even then, no barber really knew what to do with his hair –he could tell. They would just glance at his curls and then up at whatever Dursley had dragged him into the salon and shoved him to the front. Sometimes they would grimace after they snipped off a bit, thinking they had messed up, but Harry knew that it would make no difference. His hair always ended up growing that way, no matter what anyone tried to do with it.

Harry was working on the eggs and toast by the time Dudley had stomped his way downstairs, dressed to the nines for the hundreds of birthday pictures that Aunt Petunia was nearly vibrating in anticipation for. Dudley wasn’t too excited for it.

Dudley was an odd mix of looks, to Harry. He had a larger face, which contradicted the small blue eyes that he squinted a bit too much, and a trim cut of dirty blond hair that fell smoothly over his oval shaped head. He did have a normal neck, though, which Harry could appreciate. But he supposed that when you mixed two different extremes of necks –one far too long and for suspicious lurking, and the other far too short that you truly doubted its existence –you would get the result of a fairly normal neck, of normal height and width. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel –Harry often thought that Dudley looked like mean truck driver.

Harry gently placed the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult because the floor was littered with large boxes that almost caused him to trip and fall. There was barely any room on the table too. It was quite the predicament, and Harry stood for a moment trying to figure out the best layout for the dishes as well as his own feet. Dudley, meanwhile, was sat by the telly (for once facing away from it), counting his presents. His face fell.

“Thirty-six,” he said looking up at his mother and father with watery, pitiful eyes. “That’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who didn’t like yelling that much and could tell when Dudley was about to burst into a tantrum, began to wolf down the pieces of still-hot bacon as fast as possible in order to avoid it all.

Aunt Petunia’s observant skills finally came in handy, because she seemed to realize such danger too, and she rushed over to his side (making remarkable jumps and swerves about the sea of presents) with arms held out wide saying “Why, Duddy, we were going to buy you two more presents while we were out today! Two more presents, but you get to choose them! Whatever you like, however big. We wanted it to be a whole surprise for you, but I suppose you knowing now won’t take away from any of your joy and fun, won’t it popkin?”

Dudley’s face stilled for a moment, before an enormous smile that blew his cheeks into a cheery sort of red erupted onto his face. “You mean it, mummy?”

Aunt Petunia cooed at him, cupping his face and petting at him. “Of course, poppykin! Of course! Then you’ll have thirty-nine big, shiny, fun presents just for you!”

At that moment, the bright, chipper tone of the phone rang, and Aunt Petunia quickly scuttled her way to its place outside the kitchen to answer it, blowing Dudley some far too sweet kisses as she left him in his pile. Harry stared on from the table while Dudley unwrapped the racing bike, a video camera (which he figured would be used to film some form of very unfair wrestle show between him and Dudley), a remote control airplane, six different computer games (one of which Dudley had claimed was lame and never wanted anything to do with, but had seen Harry eyeing the magazine ad about it), and his very own VCR. He was tearing at a small box of what looked like something far too expensive for an eleven year old to comprehend when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, footsteps light and close together, her face twisted into an angry and worried sort of expression.

Harry felt a heat shoot up his spine, and his fingers clenched the leg of the table as he wondered what he done this time.

“Bad news, Vernon, dear,” she said carefully, arms held near her chest, “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take him.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction, voice going from a clipped, quiet worry to something sour.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, pink fading from his cheeks, but Harry’s heart nearly took off into the sky.

Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day: to adventure parks, restaurants, the movies, arcades, roller skating- anywhere and everywhere he wanted to go. Every year Harry, however, was left behind with Mrs. Figg, who was a little old lady that was nearly falling apart both physically and mentally, and lived just two streets away. A convenient distance for the Dursley’s to be able to throw him in the car, speed off down the street, stop so abruptly that his glasses would nearly break against the seat, and then promptly throw him out onto the lawn while Mrs. Figg trimmed her hedges.

Harry hated it there- not Mrs. Figg herself, though she did make him a tad uncomfortable -but rather the actual place. The whole house smelled of boiled cabbage and a strange sort of must, and Mrs. Figg made him look at countless photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned. He liked the cats, he just didn’t like the amount that she _didn’t_ have anymore.

But he especially hated it there because it made him feel like lost luggage; taken from the airplane and then handed over to some employee who didn’t care about it one bit, especially if the owner came to pick it up or not.

“Now what?” hissed Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he had personally went over and shook Mrs. Figg from the ladder she was standing on.

Harry knew he ought to feel bad for Mrs. Figg and her broken leg, but it wasn’t easy to not smile at the thought of going a whole ‘nother year without seeing Tibbles, Peapod, Mr. Paws, Tufty, and Captain Tubs again. Maybe he would write her a card though, just to be polite.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested, looking uneasy. His fingers shuffled along the bottom of his plate, hitting the silverware so it dinged softly in the quiet of the room.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy. Can’t make her suffer through all _that_, especially because she’ll spend hours afterwards complaining to _us_.”

The Dursleys often talked about Harry like this: as if he wasn’t there. Or –he noticed this was more often than the latter –like he was some nasty, ugly disease.

Usually, during moments like these, he would just sit there and try to tune it out. But sometimes he found himself listening rather intently, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong so that he could fix it. For all of the times they acted like he didn’t exist, they sure talked about him a lot.

“What about…what’s-her-name, Sarah? Your friend…?”

“Yvonne. She’s on vacation on some island. Silly to me.Of course she goes somewhere when it's the most inconvenient.” She snapped.

“You could just leave me here,” Harry spoke up after a moment, voice quiet. He had hoped for a day like this, one all to himself so that he could wander freely through the house and lounge about on the sofas, watch the telly (whatever show he wanted!). He would even be able to go on Dudley’s computer and play some of his games! An excited trill danced through his brain for a moment, and he had to bite his lip to stop from smiling.

Aunt Petunia, however, looked as though she had just been told that the neighbour’s dog had left a present in her favorite shoes.

“And come back to find the house in ruins? Everything stolen? All of our china smashed just because you had an episode, suppose?” She snarled. Harry didn’t understand what she meant by that, he had never had an episode of any sorts, nor had he gone anywhere near the china. He was strictly forbidden from going anywhere near the cabinet that held it, not even to dust it, as the Dursleys feared that he would act like a rabid squirrel and shatter it to pieces.

“I won’t blow up the house,” Harry cut in, but they weren’t listening.

“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, trying to find some sort of solution, “…and simply…leave him in the car…”

“That car’s new; he’s not sitting in it alone! He’ll wreck it or drive off with it!” Spouted Uncle Vernon.

Harry had no interest in cars, and he certainly didn’t know how to drive, so he didn’t know how he would manage that.

Dudley began to cry loudly. Not quite though; he hadn’t cried since Year One in primary school. He had gotten quite good at faking it, because he found that if he scrunched his face up just right and wailed and thrashed and screamed, his mother would give him anything he wanted. And he did _not_ want Harry joining him on his birthday.

“Dinky Duddydums, dumpling, darling, don’t cry! Mummy won’t let him spoil your special day!” She cried, flinging her arms around him and pulling him so close to her broomstick of a body that the two could’ve fallen over just because of her overwhelming love. “He’ll hardly be around us, I promise.”

“I…don’t…want…him t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge, gasping and snotty theatrical sobs. “He always r-ruins everything! What if he chases all the animals away! He’ll do it, I know he will and I want to see t-t-the animals!” He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother’s arms; all teeth and rosy cheeks and pure joy at the quiet misery in his cousin’s eyes.

Aunt Petunia pulled away for a moment, hands still tight on her son’s shoulders. Dudley immediately resumed his sobbery and clung to her shirt like a toddler. “Duddy, poppet, I promise we’ll figure something out. We’ll find a way to make this all better, he won’t have to come.” Dudley looked up at her, sniffling.

“Really?” Aunt Petunia nodded, stroking her perfect boy’s face.

“Yes. Why don’t you go off and play, okay? We’ll have this all fixed up before we leave in a couple hours.” Dudley’s act ceased immediately, and he skipped off to his room. As soon as his footsteps resounded above them, Aunt Petunia reeled towards Harry.

“What are you doing, just sitting there?” Harry blinked rapidly, startled from the sudden switch from her gentle voice to the shrill screeching he usually heard. “You still have chores to do, boy. Just because we don’t know what to do with you doesn’t mean you can just laze about like you’re on holiday!”

Harry nodded and scrambled up from the table, his knees hitting the wood and bumping the plates. Vernon nearly choked, seeing his bacon and eggs fly up from their plate, but the most he did was scowl at the boy as he shuffled past. As he walked down the hall, he went through a mental checklist of what he had to do: wash the dishes (but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were still in there, so he would wait until they migrated into the living room to discuss their new problem), polish the doorknobs, vacuum upstairs, clean the sinks. Usually during the weekend he was either commanded to do as many chores as possible, or do his best to disappear.

One time Harry believed that he had actually disappeared for a little bit, because he had walked right up to his uncle to ask if there were any chores needed to do and the man had looked right at him for almost a minute, nothing to say. Aunt Petunia had grazed past him, but there was no remark screeched at him to move before he was hired to be a traffic cone, “since he wanted to stand in the way so badly.” He was able to grab one of Dudley’s snacks from the pantry that day. It never happened again though, and Harry just thought it was some sort of streak of luck.

Harry figured to start with the upstairs sink, as it was the most time consuming next to the dishes. Nearly five minutes in and there was a light static playing up and down his back. He turned, and in the doorway loomed Dudley, his arms crossed and a sneer etched into his oval face.

“What do you want? I don't feel like playing right now.” Harry muttered, turning back to the cabinet he was trying to re-organize. Dudley was silent for another moment, and with his back turned Harry felt the freedom to roll his eyes. He didn’t feel like being bothered at the moment. He was very focused for the time being. Dudley finally spoke.

“I don’t want you going to the zoo.” Harry stood up and faced his cousin, sighing quietly.

“You know that’s not really up to us. Your parents get to decide what’s happening.” It was obvious that trying to negotiate with Dudley wasn’t possible, unless you were offering up any sort of valuable to him. But it was worth a try.

Dudley only grunted in response. “But it’s my birthday,” he stepped closer, sneering. “And I don’t want you to come.”

"Dudley, listen I-" The birthday boy looked Harry square in the eyes and then began screaming- a loud, wailing sound that almost matched his fake crying, but had some sort of blend with the angry warbles from his father. The gears in Harry's head began to speed along, and he lunged at Dudley, tugging at his sleeves.

"Please, Dudley, stop! I won't come, I promise I'll get your parents to leave me here! Please just stop!" Dudley shoved Harry off of him, causing him to stumble about before falling to the ground with a rather loud "thwump!" Before he could even begin to process what had happened, Dudley sneered at him, whispering

"I'll make sure they leave you here locked up all day." And then the boy promptly began to shriek, a strange imitation of what the he believed to be crying from a hurt child. Immediately there was a rumble from Uncle Vernon below them, probably asking what all the ruckus was, and Dudley only wailed louder. Harry could begin to feel the very familiar sharp ache in his knees, and his stomach sank into a dark, swirling knot. Not even six seconds had passed when Aunt Petunia had gathered her son up in her arms, and Uncle Vernon blocked the doorway, face near purple with built-up anger.

“What the blazes is going on in here?” Uncle Vernon spat, his eyes focused only on Harry. The boy pushed himself up from the floor, slightly dazed at the suddenness of the household’s appearance, while Aunt Petunia cooed and pet Dudley’s hair as he blubbered to her. A sentence couldn’t even begin to form in Harry’s mind at this point. Then Dudley raised a finger at him, and choked out something about how he had been trying to play when Harry pushed him. A strangled gasp fought its way from Aunt Petunia’s long neck, and her pterodactyl eyes flew to her nephew. He could’ve sworn there was steam coming from her ears; something she had to have learned from Uncle Vernon, as there was always some sort of mist floating about him, especially in the summer or when he was trying to do anything besides read the newspaper.

“I’ve just about had it with you. I don’t even know why we keep you here, especially when you’re off getting more and more violent each day.” Aunt Petunia snapped. She was a fast talker when upset, unless explaining something to her husband, whose train of thought was usually low on coal and needed some time to get from one station to the next. “Vernon, do something.” She scuttled behind her husband, Dudley held tight in her arms. Vernon squeezed through the doorway, face contorted into a vile and cross expression.

"You've really outdone yourself this time, boy. Of all the days you decide to raise a fuss- our boy's birthday no less. And you had the _nerve_ to suggest that we just _leave_ you here, and you go on and act like this as soon as we don't have an eye on you?" Harry inched himself against the wall, legs pulled to his chest in preparation for whatever was about to happen. He barely registered himself saying something, and wanted to berate _himself_ for whatever he just said, because he knew pleading didn't work against the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon lunged down and grabbed his nephew's wrist, pulling him up from the floor, and began to drag him downstairs. Dudley made sure to flash an extra bright smile at Harry as he struggled to make it down the stairs while being dragged nearly an inch off the ground.

Uncle Vernon had all but thrown the young boy into a chair, and spent half a minute simply glaring at him. Small grumbles gurgled up from his throat, but that was the only noise between the two. Harry tried to sit up straight and willed himself to look his uncle in the eyes. While Vernon paced, Harry tried to factor in all the different "wrongs" he had done so far that day, and what that would lead the punishment to. However, the fact that none of the Durlseys wanted him to join in on Dudley's birthday, nor stay at the house was probably what was prolonging Vernon's thought process. Vernon always thought rather slowly, which was probably why most of the time he simply didn't think. _That's where Dudley must have gotten it from_, Harry thought.

There was a trample of footsteps down the stairs, which threw Vernon off quite well, and the pair turned around to see Dudley throw open the front door with a little too much force.

"PIERS!" The boy shouted, and all but grabbed the newcomer and pulled him into an airtight hug. Harry could hear the squeak of air leave the boy's body.

Aunt Petunia scuttled down the stairs seconds after, and she peered from around the hallway to look at her husband. 

"They're already here!" She whispered. She looked simply frantic, like a bat exposed to daylight. Vernon made a sound between a gulp and a groan for air, and heaved himself towards the door, and the couple began some sort of silent communication as Dudley pummeled about with his friend in the doorway. Harry stayed in his chair, staring politely at the scene far in front of him. Occasionally his aunt and uncle would throw a nervous look towards him, but would quickly turn back and whisper between themselves. The two then turned to the boys and began some sort of sweet talk, then the boys turned and ran outside, most likely to the car. 

Harry stared, eyes wide. Did this mean he was going to be able to stay home alone? Knowing his aunt and uncle, they would end up tying him the chair, but he'd still be okay with that! Maybe he'd find a way out and be able to spend a little bit of time to himself before the Durlseys came back. He waited though, kept his mouth clamped shut and tongue bitten, just in case he wouldn't begin to spout his excitement to his guardians. The two crowded in front of him, gazes down and eyebrows furrowed.

"You're coming with." Aunt Petunia hissed. She then turned away and slipped out the door to join her son. 

Harry gaped up at his uncle.

"Really?" 

Uncle Vernon didn't even bother to respond, and heaved his nephew up from the chair and led him to the doorway. Before they could exit the house though, Vernon whipped Harry around to face him- the grip on his forearm so hard that Harry had to try to bite at his chin to keep from wincing, writhing about, or telling him to let go.

"I'm warning you," He growled, putting his bulging purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now boy -any form of funny business, anything at all; any sort of misbehaviour or disorderly conduct and you'll be in that cupboard of yours from now until Christmas with your legs the same colour as the coal you'll be getting. Do I make myself clear, boy?" He tugged Harry's arm forward.

"Yes, sir. I'm not going to do anything," He pleaded "I promise..."

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. He let his arm go rather viciously, and shoved the boy out the door.

No one ever believed him.

It was just that strange things tended to happen around him, honestly! It was no good telling the Durlseys that he wasn't the one who initiated it. Sometimes he thought the world was out to get him; that it wanted the Dursleys to get mad at him and hate him.

Once, Aunt Petunia finally lost it at the fact that every time Harry came back from the barbers, he looked as though he had never been at all, and she had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short that he was almost bald. She did leave his bangs, however, in a very poor attempt to “hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had laughed so hard and for so long that he started to look like a shrunk down Uncle Vernon, with a swollen red face and stocky movements. Harry spent his night curled up, thinking of school the next day and how significantly his mocking would increase –his baggy clothes and bent, taped, scratched up glasses certainly helped enough with all that. The next morning, however, he had trudged to the bathroom to find that his hair had grown back exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia held his neck still with her cold, clawing fingers and sheared it all off. He had been given a week straight in the cupboard for this, with a few bright and screaming lashings across his arms to accompany him in the dark, even though he had tried and scrambled to explain that he had no clue how it had grown back so quickly. He did, however, spend his time in the cupboard running his fingers through his hair with wonder.

But on the other hand, he’d gotten into a trifle of trouble when he had been found on the roof of the school kitchens. For backstory, Dudley’s posse had been chasing him as per usual, when, as much to Harry’s surprise as any other person could have; there he was standing upon the chimney. He had nearly toppled off in mere shock, but after settling in that that was his new situation, he sat down and began to giggle to himself at the sight of Dudley and his gang wandering around in confusion. However, the Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress that Harry had been climbing up school buildings. But all he’d tried to do (which he shouted and scratched at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. He was scared, he pleaded as Vernon locked the door; he had just wanted to hide. When he thought about it though, Harry supposed that the wind must have caught and swept him up there mid-jump. It was a cool event, and he drew many pictures of it as best he could whenever the light in the hallway was on. He had to will himself to let go of the wish for it to happen again, otherwise he would only find himself in deeper trouble.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. He was sure of it! It was worth being with Dudley and Piers if it meant spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard, Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room, or the kitchen. And, if something _did_ happen (which Harry pleaded to himself and whatever could possibly listen from inside his head that it wouldn't), there would at least be witnesses! There were bound to be almost hundreds of other people at the zoo, and they would be able to stand up and tell the Durlseys that Harry had nothing to do with whatever strange thing had happened. Maybe he could get an "I'm sorry" from the Dursleys.

Harry was utterly ecstatic to be sat in the car, and on the way to the _zoo_ no less! For the first time in his life! his knee bounced up and down, which continued to receive some not-so-subtly hidden snickers from the other two boys, and an occasional hit to his leg, but he couldn't help but let his brain run wild at such an experience! 

He had only gotten a sneak peak of what a zoo looked like once, which was when Dudley had been flipping through the channels on the telly on a late weekend afternoon. He hoped there would be elephants; they seemed to be gentle and caring. He wasn't quite sure, though, if he would even be allowed to look at anything, as he was only stuffed into the car because his aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him.

Harry tried to remain calm, collected, and polite, as he didn't want his aunt and uncle to believe that they couldn't take him anywhere without him acting out, but the thought of going somewhere for once- especially the _zoo_ of all places- had both his knees bouncing up and down at such a speed that the giggles and random jabs and hits from Piers and Dudley couldn't slow them down. 

Almost eleven years with the Dursleys, and he was finally coming with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this only took so long because so much has happened over the past couple months. I needed to focus on school and then we switched to online because of corona (online school kicked my ass), then my parents got corona, then *I* got corona and it was all really chaotic but now I finally have time to actually write. so wooo back on track babeyyyyyyy


	3. Chapter 2: Harry Goes Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *to the tune of 'Starships' by Ninki Minjaj* let's go to the zoo zoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! So sorry this took so long, I was so close to finishing this chapter but then I had to go to my cousin's house for two weeks :/ But here's hoping that the next chapter takes like,, three weeks at most

Uncle Vernon had a fantastic skill of finding anything to complain and grumble about. This skill was especially put to use when in the car. Usually it was about the other people at work, Harry, the council, Harry (again), the bank, taxes, the mortgage, Harry (once more), getting things fixed, the carpets, Harry (still), and how awful the teachers were to Dudley and that they were purposefully lowering his grades. This morning, however, was motorcycles.

"...They're out there, roaring along like absolute maniacs, the young hoodlums," he grumbled, just as a motorcycle passed them. "But some of them aren't even young! I've seen some who are twice the age of your father, you know." Aunt Petunia scoffed at that, but it seemed like she agreed. "I don't know how they do it, or why. You'd think the mere sound of that blasted engine would make them lose all their hearing!"

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," Harry piped in excitedly, the memory suddenly reappearing in his mind. "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon did not like this little inclusion, and nearly crashed into the car in front of them, which almost made Dudley and Piers bash their heads into the seats in front of them. He turned around in his seat- rather quickly, too, which startled Harry the most -fingers grappling at the material and mustache quivering with a strange hidden source of anger, and yelled at Harry. "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered. Piers mimed holding the bars of a motorcycle and made a face, moving about in his seat like he was steering wildly, and Dudley laughed harder.

"I know they don't," Harry said quickly. "But it was only a dream, sir. I just remembered it now."

Uncle Vernon grumbled lowly as he turned back around, muttering something about how daft the boy is to just remember that motorcycles can't really fly.

Harry sunk into the seat. He wished he hadn’t said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than him asking questions (or simply talking in general), it was his talking about anything that acted in a way that it shouldn’t- even if it was a dream or a cartoon of all things.

They seemed to think he would get dangerous ideas, or start to act out of control. He should’ve known though. He rested his head against the car door and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of anything else but Uncle Vernon’s voice, Dudley jabbing at his leg, or even the flying motorcycle –no matter how happy the thought of flying on that motorcycle made him. He had to forget it, otherwise the Dursleys would get mad.

The zoo was unsurprisingly overflowing with people, which at first made Harry curl up tighter in the back seat, but once the door was open and he was allowed to wander about, there was a strong stream of thrill and...even a sliver of independence running through his body. He tried to keep the newfound energy to himself, but Harry found himself bouncing and skipping about whenever the Durlseys weren't looking.

The boy had been ordered to stay a distance away from the family, as they didn't want to be associated with him because they "would look like an odd and disturbing picture of a family" which was a ghastly idea to the Dursleys. The comment whisked right over Harry's head; he was far too excited at the idea of being able to simply _be_ somewhere without Uncle Vernon nearly breaking his arm to keep him tethered to the group.

He had to be observational, though, because while he could stray away from them, he couldn't go too far- they had to be aware of where Harry was and know he hadn't tried to escape, or worse, "up to anything."

So far, Harry found that the bird enclosure was his favorite, because you got to walk around the exhibit, not just stare at it through glass- and you could feed them! The Dursleys didn't buy bird seed for Harry, though, so he had to watch Piers and Dudley run about (rather loudly) with cups of seed for the animals. Dudley got bored of holding something that wouldn't actually do something, so he waited for a couple of small, brightly coloured birds to hop towards his feet before releasing a war cry and throwing the cups at them. Piers eagerly joined in. 

Piers had a streak of all-too-happily joining in on whatever violence seemed to be happening at school. He was typically found cheering and coaxing Dudley on whenever he got so much as mildly upset, just to get them into a fight. Once a fight began, he would quickly jump onto the kid's back and hold their arms behind their back, so they couldn't actually fight back. Eleven years old and he already had a taste for street violence, which Harry didn't think was an awfully good sign.

As soon as the boys cleared the scene, Harry gently knelt down and scooped the seed back into the slightly crumpled cups. The birds had fled, obviously startled from the abrupt violence, but Harry hoped that they would come out to enjoy the now lone seed once they felt safe enough. He placed the refilled cups on a stone bench and went to walk away, leaving the birds to recover and hopefully trust any new visitors to the enclosure, but a bright yellow bird landed right in front of his sneaker.

"Oh, hello." Harry murmured, cocking his head to the side. "I left you s ome bird seed. I promise I won't throw it at you or your friends." The bird chirped at him, and hopped onto the tip of his shoe, pecking at the laces. He couldn't help but giggle, utterly delighted at the small interaction.

Another chirp came from behind him, and he slowly turned. There was another bird, this time perched on the bench, right near the bird seed. 

"You can have some too. It's for all of you. As long as you don't fight." Harry playfully scolded. The two birds fluttered up and landed on the cup, lightly pecking at it. He watched for a moment, then moved to slowly sit on the bench with the two birds. The creatures didn't pay him any mind, just continued to peck absentmindedly, some seed falling from the flimsy cup and onto the surface of the bench. Harry reached for the spilled seed- which seemed to start becoming more a pile (perhaps there was a hole?) -and brushed it into his hand. The two birds looked at him. Bright chirps started to flow from the trees, and little colorful heads peeked out from the branches. Harry smiled brightly.

There was a _whoosh_, a sound of little wings flapping all at different times, and Harry couldn't help but lean away from the sudden little breeze, raising his arm over his face. But nothing happened. Well, besides the chirping and cooing of birds being louder. He peered out from the crook of his arm and all he saw was color.

Bright, circling color surrounding him. Harry laughed. Little birds swooped down from the small swarm and would land on his arm or hand, quickly pecking at the seed still delicately cupped in his palm before fluttering back into the swirling flock. They settled after a moment, some sitting in Harry's hair, or his shoulders, hand, even his sneakers like the first bright yellow bird. 

Harry could only just stand there, eyes wide in awe and excitement. 

"_What_ are you _doing_? Get over here _this instant_. Dudley and Piers have been waiting patiently for you to finish up what _you_ want to do." Aunt Petunia hissed. Harry startled, and the birds flew off so fast you would think you could get a paper cut from their wings. 

"Yes ma'am!" He nearly scurried over to her, his head down. How long had he been standing there? He didn't mean to waste anyone's time.

However, he truly doubted that Dudley had been patient. 

Aunt Petunia, unlike Uncle Vernon, didn't like to control Harry through sheer physical force, but her stares seemed to work just as well. As they speed walked to the rest of the family, Harry could feel her infamous gaze attempting to burn a hole through his head. 

"This day isn't just about _you_, you know." She sneered. "Just because you were brought along doesn't mean you can act however you want and expect to get away with it. This is _Dudley's_ birthday. You are _nothing_ more than a traveling accessory today. Don't even think about making it about you again." 

Harry nodded weakly, murmuring a soft "yes ma'am." But his mind raced along as what she said processed. Again? He never did anything during Dudley's birthday, besides make breakfast and clean up wrapping paper. Whenever he wasn't cleaning up whatever mess 'The Special Day' brought, his entire purpose was to stay out of sight, and out of mind. Had he ever done something whilst cooking that gravitated the focus of the day before? Harry wracked his memories for a moment, confused. He didn't think he did. Perhaps he had shown how upset he was once, whilst tossing wrapping paper into the bin. He felt ashamed. Today was supposed to be perfect- for everyone in the family. He hadn't meant to mess anything up.

Once Aunt Petunia rejoined the group- Harry to the side of them all -they set off to visit whatever possibly deadly animal Dudley was prattling on about with graphic detail. The most Harry got was a push from Dudley when he ran past, but surprisingly nothing bad. Harry shook his head to himself. What had he been going on about a minute ago? Things were still okay. Today was still going to be great.

And great it was! The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams when they had started wailing about how hungry they were, but then the lady in the van had peered out just a little too far when handing the two their treats and saw Harry. Uncle Vernon went to shove his nephew behind him, but the lady had called out all too sweetly to ask what Harry wanted. Afraid of coming off as strange, the Dursleys begrudgingly gave in and bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. Despite the cheapness of it, thus lacking quality to any critic, it was good; just a little bit watery. But the Dursleys had bought him something, and without him asking for it! Well, they bought him something in general. Harry wondered if this was how Dudley felt. 

The ice cream hadn't been enough for the boys, though, and at the gentle suggestion of Aunt Petunia to look at the animals more before eating something else, Dudley pitched a fit right then and there. He claimed he and Piers were bored, and he wouldn't move another inch even if the queen herself came. Harry didn't understand how Dudley could manage to get bored of the animals already- they were all so interesting and colorful and exotic! Harry had never seen quite such things in his life. Yes, some of the animals were sleeping in their enclosures or weren't even out, but he understand why. It must be exhausting to flaunt yourself to hundreds of people each day, Harry figured. 

Terrified of upsetting her special little Duddy, especially on his most special of days, Aunt Petunia quickly complied and pushed them towards the zoo restaurant. 

The restaurant was perhaps even better than the zoo itself, Harry thought. It was flushed with colorful lights and covered with plants, fake and real- there was even a waterfall in the center! The sounds of the rain forest covered up the chatter of customers and the sounds from the kitchen, and there were cutouts of the animals on the wall. Harry wanted to stay here for the rest of his life. Piers booed when he discovered that the tellys on the walls only played wildlife documentaries, but Harry couldn't tear his eyes from the screens even when Dudley punched at his back.

After the main course, the Dursleys happily ordered dessert for their son. However, Dudley immediately began thrashing and crying about when he figured that his knickerbocker glory didn't 'have enough ice cream on top,' which was a _very_ important feature apparently. So Uncle Vernon bought him another one, and slid Harry the unfinished one without even glancing at him. Harry was ecstatic. Despite the Dursleys' glares, he couldn't stop smiling. 

But he should’ve known that it was a bit too good to be true, and things, like always, would plummet to despair quite quickly.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was built up to look like a cave, and there were stairs by the entrance that took them down into a cool and dark tunnel, with dim lights along the walls that looked like leaves. At first Harry was very hesitant to go in- he didn't like how dark it was inside and it looked far too small for any amount of people to be in. He didn't get a say, though, because Dudley and Piers hoisted him up for his arms and carried him down the stairs chanting "snake bait, snake bait, snake bait!" As soon as the doors to the exhibit opened, the three were met with a cool breeze, which was a startling but pleasant contrast to the heat of the day. Dudley and Piers immediately dropped him and ran off to press their faces against the closest panel of glass. Harry found that he liked to run his hands along the walls- they were smooth, but had grooves and small bumps in them, the texture made him feel safe, grounded, instead of being swallowed up by the darkness and cool air of the room. It was a bit too dark to tell, but he hoped the walls were a deep forest green. Reptiles and green always seemed to go together, and maybe they would like it too.

Behind the glass tanks, all sorts of lizards, snakes, and other cold-blooded creatures were crawling and slithering about. Harry had to bite his hand to stop laughing when he thought that they should have a special exhibit in here just for Aunt Petunia.

Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and enormous, man-crushing pythons, which Harry could appreciate, but he liked to gaze at the crested geckos sleeping under their warm lights. They looked so peaceful in their little habitats, and a part of him wanted to curl up under the warmth with them.

Dudley stood in the middle of the hall with his nose pressed against the glass of a rather large exhibit. A toddler wobbled their way over to where he stood, attempting to peer through the glass, but Dudley quickly shoved the kid away, socially demanding that the sight was for him only. It held a large boa constrictor, but rather than acting like it could definitely kill Uncle Vernon and destroy his precious car in just two wrap-arounds, it slept while wrapped around a thick tree branch.

“Make it move,” Dudley whined at his father. Uncle Vernon nodded, as if he were on a mission, and tapped rather business-like upon the glass. The snake, of course, didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” he ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass quite impatiently, and Harry got an odd look from the woman next to him because he began counting the paces of her child. The snake didn’t move, not even when Piers bent his body over the small wooden railing and began pounding on the glass like one of the gorillas they saw earlier.

“This is boring,” Dudley proclaimed, his voice dropping to sound sad and low, but it was still somehow shrill. It had to have come from Aunt Petunia’s genes. He stepped away for a moment, but then harshly jolted forward and slammed his palm against the glass. The snake only shifted the end of its tail, but it went unnoticed. Dudley shuffled away, eyes quickly focusing on a crocodile down the hall.

As soon as the Dursleys had moved away from the tank, Harry cautiously stepped toward the exhibit. He stared down at the snake; he wouldn’t be surprised if it had died from boredom. There didn’t seem to be any sort of life in the rest of the small enclosure- just tall, deep green plants. It had to be worse than sleeping in a cupboard, Harry thought, because at least he could leave it and wander through the most of the house. The snake in front of him was held in the same box with the same scenery and same invasive eyes every day. Harry glanced around quickly; making sure nobody was close enough to hear him. He leaned against the glass tentatively, a warm feeling beginning to spread through his chest like spilled ink.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here.” Harry murmured. “Must be awfully boring, especially with no friends. I haven’t got any either. Are you bothered by people like them a lot?” He gestured with his head quickly towards where Dudley and Uncle Vernon were. When he looked back, the snake had turned ever so slightly, and its slit eyes were peered directly up at him. Harry almost stumbled back, a jolt of icy surprise ripping through his shoulders; but then he thought that perhaps he was the first person to be nice to the snake, and it just wanted a bit of friendly attention.

“I’m sorry; I would’ve stopped them if I could have, so you wouldn’t have had to be bothered during your nap. But they don’t listen to me. Dudley probably would’ve smacked me as hard as he was smacking your glass.” The snake stretched from its resting place and peered at where Dudley was standing, then looked at Harry and shook its head back and forth, as if saying:

_‘Don’t worry, it happens all the time.’_

“I know,” Harry murmured, not sure if he was completely looney or if the snake was really talking to him or not. “It must be really annoying.”

The snake perked up a little bit, and nodded vigorously. It looked tired, but its eyes had begun to brighten a bit, as if happy that someone was talking to it.

“Where do you come from?” Harry asked, a small smile playing at his lips. “Do you have any family from there?”

The snake slunk down a little bit, and its tail curled along the edge of the glass to point at a sign. Harry squinted at it, trying to make out the words. His glasses were a little cracked from the last time Dudley roughhoused him.

_Boa Constrictor, Brazil._

“Oh, Brazil! Were you from the rainforest part? Was it nice there?” The boa constrictor stared at him for a moment and then jabbed its tail at the sign again.

_Bred in captivity. _

Harry turned back to the snake, a small but kind smile on his face that had a gentle mix of sadness to it. “I guess we’re more alike than we thought, huh?” He placed his finger on the glass, near the tip of the snake’s nose. It rose up, eyes staring at Harry, and pressed its nose where the tip of his finger was. A bright smile tugged at Harry’s lips and he wiggled his finger about. The snake followed along playfully, which drew a giggle from the boy’s throat.

Suddenly, Harry was knocked to the floor. Dudley stood over him, face pressed to the glass.

“Dad! Dad, come here! It’s moving, it’s moving! Look at how big he is!” He thwacked his thick hand against the glass, and the boa constrictor twitched away. Piers nearly jumped over the railing to get a look at the creature, and immediately brought his own hand up to hit directly in front of the snake’s snout.

“Stop it! You’re scaring him. You have to be gentle.” Harry shouted up at Dudley. However, the older boy reared his foot and knocked him back to the ground, hissing an off-hand “shut up”.

Harry glared up at the two boys, hot irons poking at his brain and a strange buzzing in his stomach. Dudley banged on the glass one more time. His hand went clean through the glass, as if it wasn’t there; and just before Harry could process that, the rest of Dudley’s body fell through and into the tank, Piers tumbling in right after him. A surprised and happy shriek came from Harry’s mouth, completely to his surprise, and the rest of the zoo-goers turned to see the commotion. 

Aunt Petunia let out a ghastly shriek, and launched herself down the hall to where her precious boy was up to his knees in murky snake water. The boys were thrashing about wildly, despite the tank not being _that _big, and they could have simply just stand up and step out. A high-pitched scream came from the crowd- and Harry realized it came from a little blonde girl who was almost physically attached to her father's leg -and the group jumped back.

The snake had begun to stretch out, and its long body made a '_plop_' form of sound when it fell from the tree. It slithered towards where the glass had once been, tongue flicking out with curiosity. Its body was right behind Dudley and Piers, who instantly traded in any form of loud and haphazard behaviour for quiet and fearful breaths. Dudley's chest heaved, and he looked at the crowd staring at him with large, watery eyes. Aunt Petunia, like much of the crowd, did nothing but bite at her knuckles and eye the boa with apprehension. 

As soon as the snake cleared the border between exhibit and freedom, the zoo-goers erupted into screams and booked it for the exit. There were a few small kids simply standing, staring with wide eyes at the massive reptile that was slowly slithering down onto the floor in front of them, but a couple adults ran back for them and scooped them up like they were grocery bags. 

Harry remained on the floor, bewildered. The boa was now fully outside of its tank, but now set its sights on Harry. His breath caught in his throat, and his body stiffened in its place. Yes, the snake had seemed friendly only moments ago- but Harry was only imagining all that! He knew that there was no way he had _actually_ been talking to it. It was impossible. And even then, just because he had been nice to the reptile, didn't mean that it would be nice to him once _outside_ of its enclosure. Behaviour from behind glass didn't guarantee behaviour outside of glass. The snake slithered along the wall, straight toward him. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, preparing himself for the inevitable deadly strike or suffocating squeeze around his rib cage. The worst sensation he got, however, was a smooth and uncomfortably long brush of scales across his arm as it made its way past him. 

He swore, though, that when he turned his head in astonishment, that there was a low, airy whisper of words that sounded like "Freedom... thank you, sssssir...."

He blinked dumbly, mouth gaped open. His mind reeled, despite a strong pulse of an oncoming headache in the right of his brain. 

Once the snake had cleared past Harry, Uncle Vernon deemed it safe to rush towards his son and their guest. Aunt Petunia scuttled forward, reaching out to her boy.

"Oh, Duddy! Come here, you're safe now." She cried out, and Harry swore there were actual tears in her eyes, which was a very strange thing to witness. Dudley reached his arms up from the water like he was a toddler asking to be picked up, and there was a loud whimper from Piers, who was now astonishingly pale. Their grasps for each other were interrupted, however, and Aunt Petunia nearly jolted with surprise. 

The glass was back.

It took nearly 35 seconds for the Dursleys (Piers included) to truly process the predicament. Once the dots finally connected in darling, sweet, Duddy's head, he jumped up (flinging more water onto Piers) and started to scream and pound against the glass with such fervor you'd think he was a monkey who had just gained self awareness. Piers joined in on the pounding- nothing new there -but his legs had checked out completely for the moment, and he remained on his knees, sobbing against the glass at Uncle Vernon. 

The latter was banging against the edges of the glass, and shouted to no one about how he was going to sue. Aunt Petunia was nearly in hysterics, and she kept both her hands and face pressed close to her son's through the glass. 

Harry had absolutely no clue what was happening. 

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a man standing near the entrance, sweaty and frozen. 

"Hey!" He shouted, but the man didn't move. Harry scrambled up, knees shaky, and ran towards the man. As he got closer, he could see that the man was wearing the zoo's uniform for animal specialists. "Excuse me," he panted, "but you have to help them!"

The man only glanced down at the boy.

"The glass was just there a moment ago." He mumbled.

"I know! But please, they're stuck! You have to get them out!" The worker nodded, though his eyes were still very much blank. He began to walk towards the Dursleys, and reached for his walkie-talkie numbly. 

"Uh, we got a- some sort of predicament at the reptile house. All- all hands on deck."

Twelve minutes later there was a group of zoo workers gathered around the tank, and Aunt Petunia had pinned herself to the edge of the glass so she could continue to coo over her trapped doodly-kin. 

Vernon stalked over to where Harry still stood and crowded him into the corner.

"What," he spat "did you do." Harry wished he could sink into the wall.

"I didn't do anything!"

"Don't you bother lying to me, boy!"

"I swear I didn't do anything! I wasn't even near the tank, the glass was there just a minute ago! I'm sorry!" Uncle Vernon was close, too close; Harry cowered against the wall, his hands raised in front of him. Uncle Vernon swatted away the boy's arms, his face the familiar purple of rage that, for the most part, Harry only saw.

"That's enough out of you. I don't want another word out of you until I ask you a question; do you understand me, _boy_?" His voice and breath were rancid, and it took all of Harry's willpower not to flinch. The most he could do was nod, though he had to bite his cheek to choke back a very involuntary whimper. Thankfully, Uncle Vernon found his response satisfactory. The humidity of anger began to evaporate as the round and grumbling man made his way over to comfort his wife and yell at the hard working- and very confused -zoo workers.

Harry thought for a moment that perhaps it would be best for him to inch his way over to the exit, maybe even exclaim that he found the snake, then run out with the group of zookeepers who would frantically run outside to catch it. The zoo was huge, the Dursleys wouldn't be able to find him. If they even bothered to look. But Harry doubted the zoo would be too keen on having a brand new exhibit featuring 'the average British boy.' And certainly no family would take him! If the Dursleys couldn't handle him, no one could. He knew that as fact. 

He shook his head. This probably was all his fault, it had to be. There was nowhere that Harry went that something like this _didn't_ happen. Well, not something as drastically odd as _glass disappearing_ (and then reappearing), but whatever strange thing happened around him was...simply strange. Maybe the oddest- up to this moment, of course -was when he actually beat Dudley in a "wrestling-match" that had been especially brutal. He didn't remember much of it, just that at one moment Dudley had him pinned to the wall and was wildly flinging his fists at whatever area of Harry that he could aim for, then himself screaming, and suddenly Dudley had nearly flown to the other side of the room. For some reason, Dudley hadn't told on him that day; they stayed away from each other for the most of the week. 

By the time the car had pulled out of the parking lot, the newly freed children had fully recovered and were babbling as loudly as possibly. Piers was proclaiming that the snake had actually wrapped itself around his body and almost killed him, Dudley was describing in great detail about how the snake had set its eyes on his leg and had tried to bite it off, poison him even! Aunt Petunia had a thin, trained smile stretched over her taught face, trying to show the slightest bit of interest despite her still pale complexion. She would probably speak of nightmares for the next couple of days. Uncle Vernon only made the occasional grunt of acknowledgement toward his son's recount of events, eyes trained solely on the road and mind intent on getting back to number 4 Pivet Drive in less than 10 minutes (the zoo was actually 25 minutes away from the house, but this made no sense to Uncle Vernon at such a time as this). 

Somehow the car was bashed to bits from the amount of swerving Uncle Vernon had pulled, and they all clambered out of the car to begin a social circle in the drive. Dudley and Piers ran about on the lawn after a moment, and the adult Dursleys stood about to wait for Piers mother. They forced Harry to stand with them, but insisted that once their guest's mother pulled onto the road he was to pretend to be best friends with the two other boys.

"We can't have her thinking we've raised some sort of... antisocial... punk. Behave and smile like an average little boy." Aunt Petunia hissed. Harry was then shoved onto the lawn; immediate prey to tackling and chastise. 

They all waved goodbye to Piers and his mother, who thanked the Dursleys for getting him out of the house for a day. They all chuckled together, as some sort of happy unit, and waved until they rounded the corner of the street. Uncle Vernon promptly twisted around and grabbed Harry by the neck of his shirt. He was seething, teeth gritted together and mustache bristling. 

"Go- cupboard- stay - no meals- _now_." Dudley giggled, shouting something after Harry as he scrambled past the front door, breath rushed and heavy. 

The boy lay on his back in his cupboard, staring at the forms of the stairs above him. Sometimes if he stared long and hard enough, the details of the cobwebs would become visible. This time, his back had become numb. He shifted over to instead stare at the wall, wishing desperately for a watch. As far as he could tell, Uncle Vernon hadn't left the front room, where he had planted himself to nurse at some of the colourful liquid (gin) from the cabinet: a reward for disciplining his wily nephew. Aunt Petunia was most likely dressed in her night gown, reading on the couch by her husband. It was awfully silent, which only added a sheen of cold sweat to Harry's back. If they would only go to sleep, then he could sneak out and steal some food from the cabinet. Which was odd- how could one eat a full meal _and _for the day and still be hungry? Is this what Dudley felt like all the time? If so, Harry then understood why the boy would try to follow after his father in serving size. 

Ten years he had been with the Dursleys, but this night in the cupboard was competing for the worst. He wondered when he had been initiated into the cupboard- where did they keep him when he was a baby? He could never remember details such as those, even when he spent his hours in the cupboard pouring over minute parts and questions of his life. What bothered most about these unsolved pieces to his memory was the car crash. He knew the only reason he was here was that his parents had gotten into a messy car crash, and ended up dead. He would squeeze his eyes shut and pull at his hair to try to remember just a smidge of his parents, or even the feeling of the baby seat he was in. The most he could ever recall though was a brilliant flash of green light, and a searing pain across his forehead. The only conclusion to such a scene was that this was the moment of the crash; though he had never seen, nor heard of, a car with green lights. But Harry had plenty of trouble with remembering some things, so it was probably that he had remembered it all wrong. Wrong or not, he couldn't help but curse at himself for having his one "Pre-Dursleys" memory be that of the crash. It wasn't very fair. He just wanted to know what his parents looked like- maybe even _what_ they were like!

His aunt and uncle refused to ever discuss the Potters, and banned Harry from ever mentioning or questioning about them. There were no traces of a picture of them. One time, Harry thought that perhaps the Dursleys didn't want to talk about his parents was because they were awful people, and since the goal of the family was to be as normal and happy as possible, they didn't want to bring up the horrible things the Potters had done. That thought nearly got Harry in trouble; but the idea of his parents being terrible, possibly dangerous people, had brought the boy to an unstoppable barrage of tears for the night. His contrast to this was that perhaps his parents' deaths were so devastating that it hurt for the Dursleys to bring it up or be reminded of, so they never wanted a trace of them around lest the details of their lives and deaths were brought back to them. That, Harry could understand their actions for. He supposed it would hurt him to such a level if he ever knew what tragic thing had happened to his parents. So they were just sparing him such devastating knowledge! It was reasonable, and he strayed as far away from ever mentioning his parents, at all, ever.

When he was younger, Harry used to curl up in the corner of his cupboard, wrapped tightly in his blanket and spend the hours dreaming of some visitor seeing Aunt Petunia scold him and promptly whisk him away from number 4 Privet Drive and into a little cottage by the ocean, with three other kids and a kind spouse that loves to bake where he could go see movies with them on the weekends and they would let him sleep with _two_ pillows. But no visitors ever payed mind to Aunt Petunia quiet remarks to him, or Uncle Vernon briskly shoving him out of the room. He was invisible to both the Dursleys, and the rest of the world. But this was his family. And he was very lucky to have them! He learned that some time ago, and learned that it was incredibly rude and ungrateful of him to wish someone else would take him in. 

Sometimes though, strangers seemed to see him. There had been instances when he had been brought along for a shopping trip with Aunt Petunia and Dudley, or perhaps on the bus, on a walk around the city, even on the way to school when some dazzingly dressed individual would wave at him with a new amount of friendliness or shake his hand with an extreme amount of fervor and all-too wide smiles. Once, someone had bowed to him! These instances drove the Dursleys mad, and sent them rushing out of whatever store or area they had been in when it was confirmed that Harry did not know the stranger. He believed it was for safety, and that one should never trust anyone even if they are friendly, but there was something about these strangers that reassured Harry that they meant no harm. A sort of calling, a knowing. 

He didn't know if he wanted that calling answered. 

**Author's Note:**

> it pains me to have such big ass paragraphs with no breaks please don't hurt me I'm so sorry if this is unreadable and oh god oh fuck I really made this first chapter wayyyyy too close to the original chapter no copyright please I'm trying


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